Chapter 2 — The Glitch That Talks Back
Morning smelled like blood and noodles.
I woke up on the couch, half wrapped in a crusty blanket, half in denial. The air was thick with iron and MSG — a comforting mix of trauma and instant ramen. My shirt clung to me like wet paper; dried blood painted my stomach in abstract art.
My wound — the one Bone-Armor Guy had gifted me with — was gone. Not fully healed, but patched in a way that screamed "unnatural." The skin looked wrong, smoother around the edges, like it had been 3D-printed.
I poked it. Winced. Then grinned through the pain.
"Well," I muttered, "killer of Supes, devourer of cup noodles, king of bad decisions."
A soft chime answered.
> SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Partial Adaptation Complete — Regeneration (Minor).
I stared at the message until my reflection in the cracked TV screen smiled back, just slightly delayed. That was new. I tried not to think about it.
Regeneration. Not enough to make me a superhero, but enough to make me a slightly more efficient corpse next time.
My hands shook faintly as I reached for the table — adrenaline rebound, maybe, or guilt. Either way, I wasn't letting it control me. I dragged a battered notebook closer, flipped it open, and scribbled the title:
"Things I Stole From Dead People."
Page one.
1. Handgun Handling (Basic)
2. Combat Instinct (Fragment)
3. Pain Tolerance (Low-Level)
4. Regeneration (Minor)
It looked absurd. Like a gamer's inventory for someone who didn't know what the hell he was doing. Yet somehow, seeing it written down made it feel real. Me — Tony Rogers, failed cashier, accidental murderer, possible data pirate.
I added a note underneath:
> Side effects may include sarcasm, delusion, and mild god complex.
The system flickered in the corner of my vision. Text glitched across it, like corrupted code.
> "DO YOU ENJOY IT?"
I froze.
"Enjoy what?" I muttered.
> "DOWNLOADING."
My chest tightened. "You talk now?"
No response. The text blinked out.
I laughed — that manic kind that tastes like fear. "Sure, yeah, haunted system. Why not? Maybe next you'll start charging subscription fees."
But for a split second, just before it vanished, I swear I saw a flicker — a pulsing symbol like a smile.
The TV buzzed on its own an hour later. I didn't touch it.
A news anchor with plastic hair and perfect teeth smiled like death's intern.
"Authorities are investigating a gang-related super homicide in the East Borough. Two bodies found, one unidentified Supe — torso missing."
My stomach dropped.
"Gang-related," I repeated, voice hollow. "Yeah. Me and my gang of one."
Panic clawed at my throat. I scanned the footage — blurry alleyway, blood, blue light reflecting on asphalt. My alley. My mess.
They didn't know it was me. Yet.
I went into cleanup mode.
Deleted social accounts.
Smashed my SIM card.
Burned the hoodie — the bloodstains hissed as they caught flame.
Checked for cameras near the alley on street maps.
Every helicopter thrum outside made me flinch. Every siren felt like my name being shouted.
By evening, I'd packed what little I owned and moved into a new apartment — smaller, shadier, cheaper. Cash from the thug's wallet paid the first month.
But paranoia moved with me.
That night, I dreamed of Bone-Armor Guy — his skull crushed inward, his eyes still alive in the memory loop of my brain.
And through the dream's haze, I heard it:
> "Download complete."
I woke screaming.
The new place was a shoebox near Hell's Kitchen — the kind of building where mold paid more rent than tenants. Pipes rattled, walls groaned, and the neighbor played terrible music that sounded like a blender eating nails.
On my second night there, someone knocked.
I opened the door to find a woman balancing a whiskey bottle and sarcasm in equal measure. Mid-thirties, dark eyes, limp in her left leg. She looked me over like I was a new species of trash.
"You're the guy who screams at 3 A.M.?"
"Night terrors," I said.
"Yeah, you sound like a dying hyena. Want whiskey or therapy?"
"Whiskey sounds cheaper."
She grinned. "Name's Maya. I work down at The Gutter Tap. If you're planning to keep screaming, at least come drink while doing it."
She left before I could respond.
Strangely, her presence grounded me. Someone normal — or pretending to be. Over the next few days, we traded small talk. She knew everyone, from bartenders to back-alley dealers. The kind of person with a Rolodex full of regrets.
I didn't know it then, but she'd become important — my anchor, or maybe my undoing.
It was at Maya's bar that I first heard about it.
Two guys at the counter — one skinny, one built like a fridge — whispering over shots.
"Got that blue stuff yet?"
"Not V. This one's lighter. Street-grade. Test version."
"Heard it makes your eyes glow for hours."
My ears perked. Blue. Not Compound V, but something close.
I leaned back in my chair, pretending to scroll my phone. When they left, I followed, hood up.
They walked into a back alley behind a laundromat — classic cliché. One pulled out a vial glowing faintly blue, the color of temptation.
I stepped closer, slow. The system buzzed in my head like static.
> Warning: Compound V Derivative Detected. Compatibility — 0.2%.
Quest Updated: Analyze Derivative Sample.
My pulse quickened. I wanted to touch it. Feel it. Download it.
But instinct — and maybe a survival gene I'd recently developed — told me no. Not yet. I memorized their faces, every scar and twitch. Then slipped away unseen.
For the first time since waking in this world, I felt something like purpose.
A direction.
Late-Night-
Back home, insomnia chewed through my brain. I needed control — over something, anything.
So I opened my laptop and started experimenting.
I opened a lockpicking tutorial. Focused hard.
The system blinked faintly.
> Lockpicking (Digital Sample Detected).
Download efficiency — 0.02%.
Then a chef's video. Knife handling, quick movements. Another ping.
> Knife Handling (Digital Sample Detected).
I leaned back, astonished.
"You mean I can download through a screen?"
> Download via Digital Signal: Efficiency 0.02%.
Estimated completion time for mastery: 43 years.
I groaned. "Cool. So I'll die of boredom before I learn to julienne."
Still, it was progress — or proof that the system wasn't limited by touch alone. I wasn't stealing just from corpses anymore. I was stealing from the world itself.
I didn't know whether to laugh or throw up.
Around 3 A.M., the lights flickered. The temperature dropped like the room suddenly remembered it was supposed to be haunted.
The system interface glowed brighter — blinding blue lines across the wall.
> "TONY…"
The voice was synthetic but layered — human under digital static.
I stumbled back, heart hammering. "Oh, hell no."
> "DO YOU WANT TO BE A GOD?"
I froze.
Every instinct screamed to pull the plug, but you can't exactly uninstall your own brain.
I whispered, "Okay. That's new."
The light pulsed once more.
> "Then download a god."
And just like that — darkness. The room went silent.
I stood there, panting, waiting for my sanity to reboot. "Sure," I muttered shakily, "I'll just knock on Homelander's door. Maybe ask for a sample. Real smart, Tony."
But deep down, something in the system's tone lingered — something amused.
Like it knew a joke I wasn't in on.
By dawn, I needed air — or what passed for air in New York.
The street was alive with sirens, steam, and sin. Neon lights reflected on puddles like melted dreams. I stood outside, hoodie up, cigarette burning low.
A Vought news van drove past. The anchor's voice carried over the static-filled speakers.
> "Breaking news — a classified Compound V sample stolen from a secured lab last night. Vought authorities deny any connection to recent black-market sightings."
__
I watched the van disappear down the avenue, mind spinning.
Maybe the system hadn't been taunting me. Maybe it was pointing me toward something.
A quest.
A chance.
A stupid, probably suicidal idea.
I smiled — small, sharp. "Guess that's my invitation."
> QUEST UNLOCKED: Trace Theft Source — Vought Storage 09.
The system flickered faintly in the reflection of a nearby window. My own face stared back — pale, tired, but alive.
Then, for a split second, the reflection smirked back late.
My stomach dropped.
The system was watching me.
Or maybe… becoming me.
I grinned at the glass. "Looks like we're going shopping."
The reflection's grin widened — half a second too late.
Fade to black.